scarcely closed when her treatment ceased to be therapy and became a caress. Her fingertips tingled along his jaw, up behind his ears. She blew softly on his neck.
Burt jumped, and she laughed. âAre you one of those men who let a woman do it all?â
The fact that heâd half-expected it didnât dull the surprise of hearing it spoken. She was, if not making a proposition, unmistakably inviting one. What the hell did this island do to women, anyway?
âI was wondering,â said Burt, âif you found everything intact in your purse.â
âCertainly,â she said in a disinterested voice. Then, curiously: âWhat has that to do with it?â
Burt shrugged. Of course she wouldnât mention the heroin, and heâd better drop the subject before she suspected that he knew. Strange that the woman showed none of the drugâs stigmata; still, it was hard to pick a well-fed hypo out of a crowd, unless she happened to be on the nod or badly strung out â¦
âYou understand about this afternoon,â she said, leaning forward in a way that brought a soft double-pressure against his back. âI wanted to invite you in for a drink, but I knew he was coming. I didnât want him to findââ
Burt laughed.
âWhatâs funny?â
âIâve seen women who come on strong when their husbands are near, then turn cold when itâs safe.â
âOh?â Idly, her fingers stirred the hair at the back of his head. âYou think Iâm one of those?â
âI think you enjoy the game, yes. I could die of old age waiting for the pay-off.â
âTell you what you do, Sergeant March. You know the island. You name it. Time, place, everything. Iâll meet you.â
Burt stopped laughing. âI think youâre trying to set me up, Mrs. Keener. Donât.â
She was leaning on him, her chin gently gouging his shoulder. Her breath was warm in his ear. âWhat are you afraid of, Sergeant March? I thought cops werenât afraid of anyone.â
âThatâs enough. Iâm leaving.â Burt started to get up, but her arms slid around his neck and pulled him back. The soft breath against his ear became wetness, then sharp, biting pain. He twisted and overturned the chair. He fell and felt her soft form rolling beneath him. He struggled to his feet and put his hand to his ear. Warm blood trickled down his neck. He felt foolish and resentful, as though heâd been tricked into performing in a slapstick comedy.
âDamn!â Burt looked down at the woman. Her beach robe was in drastic disarray, but she didnât seem to notice. She was laughing, and there was a bright red wetness on her lower lip.
âYou need a good beating,â he told her.
âReally?â She sat up with her arms braced behind her, stretching her long muscular legs out on the concrete floor. âGo ahead, Sergeant. Do your duty.â
âOh hellâ!â He whirled and tore open the screen door. Behind him her laughter trilled high above the sound of the surf. As he walked back to his cabin, he realized this was almost the same scene heâd walked out on earlier. Except that Joss had no ulterior motives; or if she had, they were hidden even from Joss herself. Mrs. Keener had a sick thing going, and Burt had a feeling her husband was a part of it.
He took a shower before going to bed. It helped a little.
THREE
Next morning Burt found a shining new padlock on the door of cabin two. He shoved his hands into his pockets and regarded it with a feeling of frustration; he had merely glanced toward the cabin as he walked along the beach, feeling normal curiosity, and now ⦠now he felt an aching desire to go in. The detective syndrome, he thought; you see a locked door and you want to look behind it. Or is that a burglar syndrome? Maybe there wasnât much difference.
He walked toward the club. It was a gray day, and a steady
Learning to Kill: Stories